


Negative Space

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27729784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: just an angsty little grief-related character study of tim. what can i say, it's short
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Negative Space

Tim had been something of an amateur photographer, before Sasha. 

It had started, according to Jon, after he’d been put in charge of taking pictures at the Institute holiday party: he’d been given a Polaroid camera for the task and loved it so much that Jon and Sasha had split the price of a used one, technically, he’d argued, not breaking their £15 spending limit, and given it to him for his birthday. After that, it had been rare for Tim not to at least carry it with him wherever he went. Mostly, he liked to take unflattering, surprise photos, which he preferred to call “candid.” Everyone in the department, and several of Tim’s friends back in research, had photos at their desks: some framed, some pinned to corkboards, some taped to the bottoms of computer screens, and others buried deep at the bottoms of drawers where no one would hopefully ever find them. 

Martin himself had pictures of himself with Sasha and Tim plastered all around his desk, and an embarrassingly not-so-small stack of photos of Jon (or himself looking at Jon like a smitten schoolgirl) underneath his metal drawer organizer.

Tim’s cubicle was the worst for it, since he tended to hang even the embarrassing ones. Those were his favorites. 

Taking down the pictures of Not-Sasha had been an all day affair. Tim hadn’t said a word as he collected them from his own desk, then Martin’s, then that Stranger’s. Martin hadn’t expected Tim to take any from Jon’s office--they so rarely spoke anymore that Martin didn’t think he’d enter his office if his life depended on it--but when he’d brought Jon a cup of tea the next day, he’d found a bunch of empty picture frames. 

He isn’t sure if Jon had noticed. Certainly, he had, right? And just not said anything? 

Martin assumes Tim has been throwing them away, or possibly even shredding them, until he walks into the break room and finds a pile of ash on the floor and Tim sitting next to it with a lighter and an envelope. He hovers for a moment in the doorway, simply watching as Tim plucks photos, looks at them for a good hard moment like he’s playing a Spot the Difference puzzle, then, every time, places his thumb over That Stranger’s face and catches the corner farthest from his own skin with the lighter, holding until the heat becomes unbearable. 

“Sasha’s not even in that one,” Martin objects, startling Tim so much that he drops the match onto his thigh, resulting in a quick but frantic rush to pat out the fire before it begins. He’s left with a little singe mark in his mint green dress pants. 

“Christ, Martin, we should put a bell on you.” 

He smiles gently. “Jon says that, too.” 

“Hm. What did you need? I’m kind of in the middle of something.” 

“Arson, it seems,” Martin says. “I knew you were--were getting rid of your pictures of her. And I get that. Because they’re not her. But that one was just you and Rosie after the holiday party. Why burn it?” 

Tim averts his eyes. “I mean, I guess if Sasha could--if I didn’t--how would I even know?” 

“Know what?” 

“Any of it. How do I know you’re the same, I’m the same, Rosie, Elias—”

“Elias is definitely the same,” Martin says disdainfully. It almost makes Tim laugh, would have in another time. Most things did. Nothing much does anymore. “Does it really matter? If we can’t know. You were happy in that picture. Rosie or not, that’s real.” 

Tim sighs, draws his knees up to his chest in a motion that makes room for Martin to sit on the floor beside him, so he does. 

“Do you think she’d have noticed?” Tim asks. “If it were reversed. If it were me. Do you think Sasha’d have noticed?” 

Luckily, the moment is so quiet that it probably doesn’t even matter if Martin replies or not, and he takes his time, waiting for the right words to say what he knows will be the wrong thing. 

He gives up. 

“How do you want me to answer that, Tim?” he asks gently. “Would it hurt less if I said no? If I said yes?” 

“Yeah. You’re right.” 

He’s not looking to feel better, though, is he? The anger, it’s a way of holding tightly onto the grief as time tries to pry it away from him, to dull the sting. And when the pain lessens, when it’s no longer a constant background agony, and they don’t even have photos, no reliable memories of her--what still remains to prove he loved her at all? Grief is a receipt; loss the only proof that he’d had her, and to heal would risk losing the loss. 

Tim is all negative space. He’s defined himself by the holes in his heart rather than the heart around them. 

Martin stands, both knees cracking audibly as he does so, and turns on the kettle, placing two tea bags into two mugs. He’ll sweep up the floor when Tim has had a cuppa and feels done staring at the ash.


End file.
